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I.P. by F.C. Malby

The cardboard shielded his
body from the shock of the pavement beneath his thighs. His trousers alone
could not force out the early morning frost. Joe could see his breath
disappearing into the daylight with the traffic and the bustle of people, all
with places to reach, jobs to begin; lives filled with family, and co-workers. He
filled his life with these once. Now it was full of strangers in the street, bodies
sleeping on old bits of packaging. Discarded.

She
always walked across the street from the bank, eyes focused on the coffee shop
behind him. He waited for anyone to notice his hat between his toes – upturned,
hopeful.‘Joe,’
she said as she reached him, ‘can I get you a coffee?’

‘I’ve
had one. Thanks.’

She
leaned in towards him – her hair curled in bronze spirals, her suit pressed and
the brightest of reds – and quietly placed some notes into the hat. Small coins
usually clinked as they landed but she gave him notes.

It
wasn’t the fresh pressed suits, or the bronzed locks, or the fact that she gave
him money that made an impression. She made eye contact. She always offered
him coffee. He said no.

As
she turned to open the glass panelled door, her bracelet dropped onto the
cardboard beneath him, nestling into the crinkled edges like a baby bird
sheltering from a storm. He lifted it up but she was gone. In the next few
moments the door became jammed open with the force of large numbers of suits
either pushing in to the shop for a hot shot of caffeine, or trying to escape
with an un-spilled cup. Fish swimming upstream.

Joe
looked down at the bracelet, now shimmering in his hand. The initials, I.P., caught
the light: Isabel Parker. He remembered his mother’s bracelet because his
father had tucked it away into a handkerchief, deep into the recesses of his bedside
drawer, and he remembered the look on his mother’s face when he gave it to her,
wrapped in red ribbon neatly circling a black box with the silver embossed
swirls of a jeweller’s finest.

Isabel
Parker didn’t recognise him each morning when she leaned in to give him some
notes, and why would she? Separated from each other when they lost their
parents, Joe remembers the journey to his new home with the sharpness of an icy
dawn.

‘It’s
for the best,’ a stranger in a suit had told him. ‘You’ll see your sister when
you’re settled.’

He
didn’t, not until the day when she first walked into the coffee shop. He had
recognised her immediately but he couldn’t share his identity out of shame.
Their lives had spiralled in different directions and time had passed. Seeing
her each morning was enough.She
emerged from the commotion holding a gingerbread man and a shot of espresso. He
handed her the bracelet. Leaning down towards him, she clasped his hand, smiled,
then turned away and vanished into the crowds.

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Comments

Great! I love the feeling you create between the characters. I've had dealings with a few homeless people, and some of them are rough diamonds. One in particular said his father owned a number of casinos, but I reckon it was one of his 'taller' stories.

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